Maybe This isn't The End at All
by Aragarna
Summary: How, with the help of all his friends, John made it out of the rooftop. Alternate ending to the finale episode.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: This picks up right after The Man Was a Hero and is a direct sequel, even though both stories can be read as their own stand-alone. The Man Was a Hero follows John's journey from the Fed vault to the rooftop, filling the blanks of the episode, and I did my best to make it canon compliant. Similarly to the episode it does leave the door just opened enough to the idea that John might have made it. The present story explores this idea and is thus an alternate ending to the finale episode.

Many thanks to JinkyO for the beta and advice!

MAYBE THIS ISN'T THE END AT ALL

PROLOGUE

To understand people, I spent a lot of time watching them, studying them. I looked for patterns, common denominators that would reveal to me the essence of human beings. I watched them in joy. I watched them in pain. At the beginning, I couldn't understand. I couldn't understand their obsession with loss. I would watch them preciously keep old pictures of lost loves, images of beloved parents gone too soon, listening over and over to one last message randomly left on voicemail.

Now I understand.

I've rewatched over a thousand billion times the last few seconds before the death of Analog Interface. I keep wondering where it went wrong, what I could have done differently, if maybe, maybe, I could have saved her.

I need to figure it out, analyse step by step the path that led to this undesired outcome. And maybe, if I figure it out, maybe I will be able to prevent any further losses. And then, maybe Analog Interface wouldn't have died in vain.

One of the first things Admin taught me was the game of chess. Chess isn't that hard to master for an AI, but it was a good learning tool. For a long time, just like a chess master, I have been strategizing by anticipating my adversaries' moves rounds in advance. This is what I was built for. But now I realize anticipating their moves isn't enough. I need to have the whole game played out before the game starts. Before my opponent even starts putting its pieces on the board.

I also need more pieces.

And new rules.


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

 **July 5** **th** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157**

The first thing John noticed, as he slowly came through, was how much his body hurt. His right arm, his right leg, his guts and the side of his head, right above the ear… It had to have been quite the rough night. The only good news was that he was alive to feel it all. The second thing he noticed were the regular beeps of a heart monitor. He was lying in a bed, which felt comfortable enough. His right arm seemed to be immobilized in a sling, but he wasn't otherwise tethered. Apart from the monitor and the constant muffled sound of the city in the background, everything was quiet. All this sounded safe enough.

He cracked an eye opened, and tried to make out his surroundings. The bright white walls and the overall impersonal feel of it were unmistakable. He was in a hospital bedroom, rare and surprising, given that he hadn't had an official existence in over a decade and having made so many enemies in the meantime…

He tentatively straightened up, but moving appeared to be a bad idea, and he groaned under the pain shooting through his body.

"Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?"

John slowly – and carefully – turned his head and looked up at Shaw who was sitting on a chair next to his bed.

"Don't try and move," she warned him softly, as she put down a half-eaten sandwich and leaned closer. "How are you feeling?"

John tried to remember how he ended up here. As the fog of his mind cleared up a little, it started to come back to him in disorderly flashes. The missile over his head, Samaritan's operatives shooting relentlessly at him, Harold on the other rooftop.

 _Harold._

John sat up with a jolt, panic griping his heart. Why was Harold not here? Harold was always there when he woke up. Ignoring the pain, the spinning room and the monitor alarms, he tried to get up, but Shaw jumped from her seat and pinned him back to his bed. He tried to push her away, but he was in no physical conditions to fight back, and he fell back on his pillow.

"Wow, hey, take it easy, Wonderboy. You need to rest," Shaw admonished him.

His despair escalating by the second, he grabbed Shaw's arm. "Harold?" he croaked, his voice sounding rough and weak.

"Harold is fine. He just went for a coffee run. Well, a _Sencha green tea_ run. He's gonna be disappointed that you chose to wake up the minute he finally left your side."

"Fusco?" John breathed.

"Lionel is fine, too. He's back to work. Everyone is fine now. Even the Machine woke up before you."

John leaned back on his pillow and let go of Shaw's arm.

It took a moment for the words to finally sink it. _Harold is fine, everyone is fine_. He slowly exhaled and allowed himself to relax.

Even _he_ was fine – or would be, soon enough, hopefully. Recovering was certainly not his favorite part of his line of work. It was painful and frustrating. Patience was not his forte. And by the look of it, this time around, recovery was going to take some time… But as he remembered his last moments on the rooftop, where he was convinced he would not make it, he had to admit his current condition was still a lot better than expected.

"How bad," he asked, raising his free hand toward his bandaged head.

Shaw shrugged. "Your head is just fine. A bullet grazed your skull. It ruined your silver fox hairdo a little, but it'll recover. The rest is more serious, but it's nothing you won't recover from. You took five bullets. The main issue was that you lost a _lot_ of blood, and you had a perforated lung. It was touch and go for a while. You had everyone worried about you. But they fixed you up good. The perks of being in a hospital…"

"How come am I in a hospital and not in the safehouse?"

"Safehouse was compromised, remember? Plus, you really pushed your luck on that one. You were in critical condition so they had no choice but to bring you here. It was a matter of minutes. It wasn't without risks, but it was still your best chance. And since the outside world still thinks you're a Detective, you can actually afford the comfort of the living for once. So, we decided it was just as well to keep you here until it was safe to take you home."

"Who's _they_? Who brought me here?"

"Logan Pierce and his team."

John rolled his eyes. " _Logan Pierce_?"

"Yes, that's the guy who saved your ass," Shaw said with a smirk. "Again."

"God, he's gonna be so insufferable about it."

"Oh he already is. At least you missed two full weeks of it."

John's heart missed a beat. "Two weeks?! I've been out for _two weeks_? How about the numbers?"

It was Shaw's turn to roll her eyes. "For Christ's sake, John, can you, once in your life, just stop being everyone else's hero? Let us worry about the numbers and take care of yourself."

John would have shrugged but that would have probably hurt too much.

"You did save the world," Shaw added more softly. "You're allowed some time off."

John smiled weakly. She was probably right. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't exactly feeling like getting out of bed just now…

"I should go and get the doctor," Shaw said.

She stood up, but John called her back. "Doctor can wait," he said in a low voice. "I'm fine. Tell me what happened."


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

 **June 20** **th** **2016 – Washington DC**

 __ irrelevant_prog status update: stand by_

 __ protecting admin: high priority_

 __protecting primary asset: high priority_

 __protecting team: high priority_

 __reevaluation of strategy_

 __reallocation of processing power for additional simulations_

 __launching simulations_

 __ contacting assets_

 __ reassigning assets_

* * *

Logan Pierce was in his office when his second landline – the secure one exclusively used by The Machine – rang. It was shortly before noon. He grabbed a pen as he picked up the phone, ready to dutifully note the upcoming number. But it wasn't a number this time. Instead, the message, rather enigmatically, stated:

 _Relocate to New York office. Wait for further instruction. Do not intervene in anything until given the greenlight. Be ready for anything._

This was disconcertingly unusual, an unexpectedly precise compared to the usual enigmatic messages coded in the Dewey decimal system. Logan had a gut feeling it had to do with their New York friends, and that didn't bode well for them.

He dropped everything immediately, canceled all his meetings, and contacted his associates, Joey Durban and Harper Lee.

"We have a new mission," he informed them, "which I suspect might lead to some repeat numbers."

"Repeats?" Harper asked. "Who would be dumb enough to get in a life-threatening situation again?"

* * *

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – Midtown, Manhattan**

After a short flight to New York, Logan, Joey and Harper relocated to Logan's loft, waiting, as ordered, for further instructions. They were at the same time more than ready for fight, and terribly anxious. The day passed, followed by a very long night. Finally, shortly after dawn, Logan received the second message as a text on his cellphone. It was concise, once again oddly precise, and not even coded.

 _1133 Avenues of the Americas, helicopter, #498-00-3145_

 _And get the hell out of there before 7:44._

Logan immediately recognized John's number. Heart pounding, they raced to the heliport on the roof of the building.

* * *

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – 1133 Avenues of the Americas, New York City – 1500 feet above grounds.**

"Over there, he's on the rooftop!" Harper Rose pointed out to her two companions.

Logan Pierce, seated to her left, was piloting the helicopter, while Joey Durban, in full commando gear, was in the back, a rifle pointed through the window.

"I see him," Logan said, "it looks like he's been hit!"

John was standing in the farthest corner of the rooftop, next to what looked like a fuse box, or an electric terminal of some sort. He was defending his position with a single handgun, against three men in full military gear with large caliber rifles. Despite John's best efforts, they were quickly closing in on him.

Joey winced as he watched John being hit by three bullets at once.

"He's been hit!"

"Go, go!" Harper Rose urged.

John was down on his knee. He was now shooting with one hand as he kept his right arm held protectively against his side. He was gradually caving in, but was still methodically shooting left, then right, to keep his opponents at bay. But he was outnumbered and outpowered… He finally fell to the ground and his weapon slid out of his hand…

As soon as they got within range, Joey adjusted his aim and in three quickly successive shots, he took down the three mercenaries. John was now lying still on the ground, and hadn't reacted to the presence of the helicopter approaching. This wasn't a good sign.

"You're gonna need to be just above him," Joey told Logan with rising concern.

Harper quickly unbuckled her seat belt and moved to the back of the helicopter to help Joey adjust his harness. She checked that the abseil rope was secured and that nothing was hampering it. As soon as Logan stabilized the helicopter above John, Joey jumped out without hesitation and abseiled his way down to the roof. He landed next to John, drew his rifle and visually swiped the rooftop to make sure no one was around.

In the helicopter above, Harper checked out the dashboard clock, "You have two minutes!" she yelled at Joey.

"Do we know why we need to be out of here in precisely two minutes?" she asked Logan.

In the pilot seat, Logan shrugged. "I guess we'll know soon enough. There has to be a reason, the Machine is never wrong."

Below, once assured that they were alone on the roof, Joey focused all his attention on John, who was indeed unconscious. He was lying on his side, next to the electric terminal on which a laptop was perched in precarious balance. Still on, and rather miraculously unscathed, the laptop was displaying a pop-up window on its screen. _Uploading complete_. At least, whatever John had been doing, it looked like he had succeeded. Looking down at the man at his feet, Joey swallowed the lump in his throat. There was something highly distressing about seeing John riddled with bullet wounds, his white shirt largely tainted with blood, his legendary suit pierced on several places. Even the legendary Man in the Suit wasn't so invincible after all. Joey knelt down next to the man who had once saved his life and touched his shoulder. But John didn't respond. At least, he seemed to be still breathing.

Joey took the extra harness he was carrying and passed it around John's torso. He attached it to his, passed his arms under John's and pulled him against his body with a strong grip.

"Okay!" he screamed to Harper.

She pulled them up and helped them into the helicopter. With Joey's help, Harper freed John from the harness and lay him down on the floor, doing her best to make him comfortable in the cramped space. Pierce's vehicle was fast and easy to handle, but it wasn't optimized for rescue missions.

"Watch out!" Logan shouted suddenly.

The helicopter swerved and Joey and Harper fell backward. Joey grumbled and looked over his shoulder through the windshield, as a missile passed dangerously close by and hit the rooftop where John and Joey had been a minute ago.

"What was that?!"

"The reason why we only had two minutes, I presume," Logan said.

Harper reached out for John's neck, looking for a pulse. "I can't feel his pulse," she said with great worry. Wincing at the sight of so much blood, she put her hands on John's abdomen wound to try to limit the bleeding, while Joey was making a tourniquet to stop the bleeding on his left leg. But they didn't have enough hands to cover all the wounds. John's life was slipping away with the blood pouring out.

Joey turned toward Logan. "We need to get to a hospital, stat!" he shouted over the roaring noise of the helicopter.

"Would it be safe?"

"We don't have a choice. He needs immediate care. We can't fix him with a first aid kit."

"We have to risk it," Harper seconded urgently, as she started performing CPR on John. "It's a matter of minutes here."

"Alright, heading to Mount Sinai Hospital. Our ETA is about five minutes."

Pierce maneuvered the helicopter and reached for the radio to make contact with the hospital.

"Hold on, John," he whispered.


	4. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – 1133 Avenues of the Americas, New York City – ground level.**

Out of breath and barely able to stand on his feet, Harold reached the ground floor of the building. With the last ounce of energy he had, he rushed to the exit door and pushed it open. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked up at the top of the building on the other side of the street, where he could barely make out John's silhouette. Reese was still fighting, firing back at Samaritan's operatives that Harold couldn't see. Harold just stood there, staring up at his friend, until suddenly John fell and disappeared from his sight.

"John!"

Heart racing, he rushed forward, his hand shakenly holding grip on his fire weapon. But his knees gave in, and he fell to the ground, in the middle of the street, with passing cars angrily honking at him.

"Harold!" someone suddenly called behind him.

On the verge of collapse, Harold felt hands strongly grabbing him, and he let himself being dragged to the sidewalk where he was forced to sit down.

Tears rolling down his cheeks, he couldn't take his eyes off of the rooftop. The echo of each gunshot reverberating inside his ribcage, tearing his heart apart.

"John, we need to get to him," he implored.

"Breath, Harold. Calm down."

His mind clearing up a little, Harold finally recognized the familiar voice, and looked at the man who was sitting next to him, feet in the gutter.

"Leon?! What are you doing here?"

Leon Tao put a protective hand on Harold's shoulder. "Saving you, apparently. Come on, we got to go."

"But John…" Harold breathed, staring with despair at the unreachable rooftop.

In the distance, they heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. Leon pointed at it. "I believe this is for John."

"How?..." Harold mumbled. This was all too confusing. Was it the Machine's doing? But the Machine was gone...

The helicopter was now hovering over the rooftop. Harold distinguished a shadow sliding down to the rooftop.

Harold startled as an ambulance briskly stopped in front of him. Paramedics emerged and tried to drag him away, but Harold refused to move, refused to take his eyes off the rooftop. Finally the shadow reappeared as it was pulled back up to the helicopter. Harold's heart shattered as he made out John's body, looking limp.

"Sir, you have to let us take care of you," a paramedic said.

"Harold, we got to go," Leon said urgently.

Having reached the last ounce of his strength, heartbroken and too weak to resist any longer, Harold finally accepted to be carried away and laid down on a gurney.

Everything became blurry and confused, until he passed out in the ambulance.

* * *

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – Downtown Manhattan**

Having left the subway car containing the Machine in an abandoned maintenance tunnel – hopefully safe enough for now – Shaw and Lionel climbed the subway station stairs and reached street level just as a whistling sound tore the sky. Looking up, they watched as a missile passed above their heads and fell on a building in the distance. Their heart tightened.

"You think it's for them?" Lionel asked.

"Who else besides Samaritan would launch a missile over Manhattan?" Shaw replied dryly.

"Then they probably need our help."

Lionel attempted to free himself from Shaw's support but he tripped. Shaw pulled him up and wrapped her arm around his waist. "You're injured, Lionel, you're in no shape to fight. We need to get you to a hospital."

"I'm fine," Lionel mumbled stubbornly, even though he was leaning heavily on her. He clenched his teeth and tried to ignore the pain of his wound. He felt suddenly very guilty that he had let that idiot Blackwell stab him. If John and Harold needed their help, he didn't want to go to the hospital. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to them because he couldn't come and back them up. Not after everything they've been through together.

"No, you're not fine, big guy," Shaw said. "Come on, you know they're resourceful. Don't you worry about them."

They staggered across the street and Shaw pointed a gun at the first car that came their way. The car came to an abrupt stop, two inches from their feet.

"Get out," Shaw shouted to the driver.

The driver, a young man in a cheap suit, quickly complied without a word and ran away.

Shaw helped Lionel get in on the passenger side before circling the car and taking a seat behind the wheel.

Lionel took out his phone and dialed John's number. Heart pounding, he waited anxiously for his partner to pick up. But the tone kept ringing in the void.

"John's not picking up," he said, a lump in his throat.

"He might be busy…" Shaw said, trying to sound reassuring. "Keep calling, I'm going to try and call Finch."

They exchanged worried looks. Both their phones kept ringing and no one was picking up. Finally, after an eternity, someone picked up Shaw's call.

"Finch?!"

"Hmm, no, it's Leon…"

"Leon?" Shaw repeated, incredulous.

"Leon?" Fusco echoed.

"Where's Finch?" Shaw pressed.

"He's with me. He's injured."

Lionel felt his chest tightened. She glanced sideway at Lionel, who was listening in through his own phone. Her deep frown of worry marking her forehead was mirroring his own feelings.

"How bad?"

"It's a gunshot, I think. He's unconscious, but we're in an ambulance. They're taking him to Mount Sinai."

"Ask him about John," Lionel whispered.

"Any news on Reese?" Shaw relayed.

"They're taking him to Mount Sinai too."

"Okay, we'll meet you there," Shaw said before quickly hanging up.

She violently turned the steering wheel full block. The car slid across the street, spun, did a brisk U-turn and jolted back in the opposite direction.

On the passenger seat, Fusco was holding tight to his seat belt and had lost the very few colors he had left.

* * *

As they arrived in front of the ER entrance, they almost collided with an ambulance pulling in. EMTs quickly pulled out a gurney and rolled it toward the automatic doors. On their tail, Leon Tao was doing his best to stay close to the man on the gurney.

"Harold," Shaw and Lionel said at once.

Shaw unceremoniously pulled the car half-way over the sidewalk, jumped out of her seat, circled around the car, and helped Fusco out the vehicle. Holding on to each other, they made their way to the door, trying to follow Harold. But the EMTs had disappeared with the gurney and so had Leon.

At this point, Lionel was at the end of his rope and his knees finally gave in. Luckily, he was in the hallway of an emergency room. In barely a few seconds, plenty of medical staff were by his side. He was offered a wheelchair where he let himself crash with relief.

"You have to let them take care of you," Shaw said.

Lionel was in no condition to argue. "Find them," he breathed, looking at her as he was wheeled away.


	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, ER  
**

It didn't take long for Shaw to find Leon. He was standing, disheveled and pale, by the door of a trauma room, looking anxiously through the door's small window.

"Leon!"

"Shaw, there you are," Leon said, visibly relieved to see a familiar face.

"How is Harold?"

Leon pointed through the door. "He's in there. They're… hum, giving him blood, I think."

Shaw looked over through the round window of the trauma room's swing door. A team of doctors and nurses were taking care of Harold. She watched the monitors reading his vitals. His pulse was strong and steady, he was breathing on his own through a mask and his oxygen saturation was good.

Fast footsteps coming from directly behind them made Shaw and Leon turn around. Paramedics were bringing in another gurney. They both stepped aside, anxiously watching as the gurney passed in front of them, on its way to the adjacent trauma room. Heartbroken, they recognized John's unconscious figure, his terribly pale skin a vivid contrast with the blood staining his clothes.

As their eyes were riveted to their friend, they didn't see the group that was coming in right behind the paramedics and who collided into them.

"Shaw?!"

Sameen turned around to find Joey Durban, in his military gear, along with Harper Rose and Logan Pierce, the whole DC team. Joey and Harper had blood all over their clothes. It took Shaw a couple seconds to connect the dots.

"You brought John in."

"Yes," Harper said. "We had been told to relocate to New York yesterday. We got John's number an hour ago."

Leon leaned toward Shaw. "Who are those people?" he asked.

"They're the D.C. team, working for…" Shaw hesitated a second. She didn't actually know what Leon knew. "They work with us too. I'm guessing they insured John's rescue the way you insured Harold's."

They all gathered behind the glass wall bordering the trauma room where doctors and nurses were now tending to John's injuries. They all watched with a shared horror as the doctors intubated him. A nurse unceremoniously tore apart his suit and shirt, and placed electrodes on his chest. They all looked in silence at the monitor showing a desperately flat line, and held their breath as the doctors started shocking John with a defibrillator, until a miraculous beep finally indicated John's heart was beating again.

* * *

In the first trauma room, Harold had been stabilized and was now being hauled to the surgery floor for the surgeon to take out the bullet from his abdomen.

A young doctor with a pony tail came out of the room behind the gurney. She was surprised to see so many people outside the door and shot them a stern look.

But before she could say anything, Leon, who had met her when he first arrived with Harold, stepped forward.

"Dr. Tillman," he asked, "how is he?"

Megan Tillman glanced at the small crowd.

"They're all friends of Harold's," Leon pressed.

"He's been stabilized. The bullet was lodged in his spleen but the damages are limited. He's being taken to surgery to remove the bullet and suture the wound."

"Is he going to be okay?" Harper asked.

"Barring any complications during surgery, your friend should recover," the doctor said, cautiously optimistic. "I can take you to the waiting area of the surgery floor."

"Actually…" Shaw intervened. "We're waiting on our friend, here."

She pointed over her shoulder at the second trauma room where the doctors were still actively attempting at saving John's life.

Dr. Tillman frowned but in front of so many pairs of concerned and determined looks, she refrained from making any comments. She simply nodded and smiled at them with compassion.

"You should go and wait over there," she told them, pointing to the end of the corridor.

But none of them moved. Instead they all turned back to look at what was happening in the trauma room.

* * *

Frowning, Dr. Tillman followed their gaze and looked through the glass too.

Her heart missed a beat. Despite the stillness of unconsciousness and the tube in his throat, she recognized him right away. She would have recognized him anywhere. His hair seemed greyer, but the chiseled features of his face were unmistakable. It was the mysterious man who talked her out of killing off Andrew Benton, and likely took care of it himself, on her behalf. _Everybody needs someone to talk to_. She can still hear the low echo of his raspy yet gentle voice.

"John…"

She had spent weeks trying to find him again, but he disappeared as fast as he had appeared. For four years now, she had hoped their paths would cross again. But she didn't expect it to happen that way. She wondered if he got wounded helping someone else.

"You know him?"

Megan startled and finally took her eyes off of John to look at the small brunette who was staring at her.

"I've met him briefly, a few years ago," Megan said softly. "He helped me… I was about to do something stupid and he just appeared out of nowhere. Still today, I'm wondering who he was, why he did what he did. All I know is that he probably saved me."

"Yep, that sounds just like John."

Without looking away from the trauma room, everyone nodded in agreement.

* * *

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157**

Comfortably settled in his hospital bed, and hooked to an IV line feeding him with fluid, Lionel was recovering as a nurse was tending to his wound.

The stab wound, if deep, wasn't too serious. Luckily for the detective, as Shaw kept reminding him, he had enough padding that the cut hadn't reached any vital organs.

"You're good as new, Detective," the nurse told Lionel with a smile after she finished. "I would advise you to take a few days off, and to avoid any field work until your wound is properly healed."

She left the room, leaving Lionel all alone. Shaw hadn't returned yet and he hadn't heard from anyone. He couldn't help but half-expect John to magically appear at the door of the room, a dry smile at the corner of his lips. _Come on, Lionel, you didn't think you would get rid of me this easily._

But John hadn't showed up yet and Lionel was worried sick.

Frustrated by the lack of news from anyone, Lionel was about to get out of his medical bed and try and find out by himself – even risking reopening his wound – when Shaw finally came back.

And she wasn't alone. Coming in right behind her was Leon, but also the DC gang, Harper, Logan and Joey, a.k.a. mini Shaw, mini Harold and mini John.

They all looked awfully disheveled, if not outright scary. Harper and Joey were covered in blood but didn't seem to care about it, Leon was white as a sheet and they were all showing haunted looks. Lionel's heart sank in his chest at the sight. Those were not the faces of messengers of good news.

"What happened to you?" Lionel asked pointing at the blood on Harper and Joey. "Where's Glasses?"

Joey shook his head. "We're fine. The blood is John's."

"John?" Lionel repeated, in a barely audible voice. "Is he…" Terrified in advance, he braced himself for the answer.

"He's still alive," Shaw said quickly

"They just took him to surgery," Leon said.

"His heart had stopped but they brought him back."

"Doctors said he's in critical conditions."

They were all talking at the same time, some terrifying medical details that Lionel didn't care about. For now, all that mattered was that John was still alive. Lionel released a big sigh of relief. John was a tough guy. If he made it to the hospital, he was going to make it all the way through, he was sure of that.

"Don't get your hopes up, Lionel," Shaw warned him. "He's not out of the woods, yet. Far from it."

"Always the optimist, Shaw," he retorted dryly.

She shrugged. "Just saying it the way it is."

"How about Glasses?" he asked.

"Finch is in surgery too, but his condition is less critical. He only took one bullet to the abdomen."

Lionel swallowed the lump in his throat. When did things start to go so bad that taking _only_ one bullet had become relatively good news?


	6. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

 **June 21** **st** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157**

Harold awoke in a jolt. Everything around him looked too bright, sounded too noisy. Chaotic. His heart was racing, his body was hurting. But all he could think of was John. He couldn't erase from his mind the agonizing image of John falling and disappearing from his sight.

It took him a moment to make out his environment, reconnect all the threads, and finally understand he was in a hospital.

"Leon?" he called.

"I'm right here, Fi… Harold," Leon said, appearing at Harold's side. "By the way, which name am I supposed to give them?" He added in a whisper.

Harold grabbed Leon's arm. "John, where's John?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"He's in surgery," Leon said. "You have to relax."

Harold's anxiety was overwhelming. It didn't help that he was feeling all foggy and confused. The fact that John was in surgery wasn't exactly a promise that he'll be alright. But at least it meant he was still alive and Harold didn't have the strength to ask for a clarification on his condition. He was too afraid of the answer. Closing his eyes, he decided he would just hold on to the hope for now.

"How about Miss Shaw, and Detective Fusco?"

"Right here with you," a familiar voice called from the other side of the room.

Harold turned his head to the left. Lionel was lying on a bed beside his while Shaw was sitting in a chair between them, eating a snack. They both waved at him. Harold raised a lazy hand to salute them back and relaxed a little. At least those two seemed safe enough.

"Harold, sir?" a female voice called. "I'm Doctor Tillman. How are you feeling?"

"Doctor Tillman…" Harold mumbled. "Sorry I borrowed your name… It was a matter of emergency…"

His voice trailed off.

"Don't listen to him," Leon said with a wry laugh, trying to play it cool. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

Luckily Dr. Tillman ignored him. "Harold, I need you to focus," she said gently. "Can you tell me how you feel? Are you in pain?"

The pain caused by the fear in his heart was barely bearable, but that was probably not what the doctor was asking about. His abdomen was sore, but it wasn't any sort of pain he wasn't used to. And the medicine they had given him was relieving most of it.

"The pain is okay," he said.

She quickly checked his vitals, took a couple notes and finally looked back at him. "Everything looks fine, Harold," she smiled. "We will talk more later. For now I want you to rest. Do you need anything?"

Harold's anxiety spiked again. _I need John. I need John to be safe and sound._

"John?" he asked again. "I need to see John."

"He's in surgery," Leon repeated.

"Take me to him," Harold repeated stubbornly.

"You need to rest," doctor Tillman interjected. "And he's not out of surgery yet."

Harold shook his head. "I won't rest until I know John's safe and sound."

"I promise to keep you updated as soon as John is out," the doctor said patiently.

Lionel pushed away his bed sheets and sat up. He grinded his teeth at the pain that shot through his abdomen. He realized he wouldn't be able to just walk out and turned to Leon.

"I'll go see John," he said. "Leon, can you please get me a wheelchair?"

Leon glanced at Dr. Tillman. She didn't look happy.

"You need to rest too, Detective," she said sternly.

"I'll rest up there," Lionel said stubbornly. "Leon," Lionel insisted, glaring at his friend.

Leon hesitated a minute, but Lionel's determination won him over and he hurried outside the room. He came back a minute later and helped Lionel into the wheelchair.

"Are you hurt, Detective?" Harold asked as he watched Lionel laboriously transfer from his bed to the wheelchair.

Lionel waved it off. "Nah, it's nothing, just a cut. Don't worry about me. Get some rest, Glasses."

But Lionel could see in Harold's eyes that he wouldn't find any bit of rest until he'd be reassured about John.

"I'll come back with John, I promise," he said, as much to reassure Harold as to reassure himself.

Dr. Tillman was kind enough to lead him to the waiting room of the surgery floor and she promised to inform the staff to keep him updated on John's surgery.

Lionel settled in his wheelchair to keep vigil for John, the way John had kept vigil on him after the tunnel accident. Lionel had told him to get the hell out, but John had stayed by his door all night none the less. Because that's who John was, loyal to a fault, standing by your side, always.

The DC team had informed him on their rescue mission, and John's critical condition when they found him, which had left Lionel a lot less optimistic on John's chances of survival. Yet, he stubbornly refused to imagine any other outcome. John had to make it.

Despite the terrible dread grasping his heart, a small smile brushed Lionel's lips as he thought back on their first encounter and that little drive to Oyster Bay where Lionel had intended to get rid of John. It felt almost surreal now to think back to that time. If someone had told them, that day, that they would become friends, and partners at the eighth, they would probably both have laughed it off. It was as if it was a different life. A different Fusco. He sure had changed a lot since. Somehow, behind the bullying of their early days, John had reminded him he could be a good cop, that he _was_ a good cop, if only he had the balls to be one.

Lionel swallowed the painful lump in his throat. John had to make it. He couldn't give up on him now. It would just not be the same at the eighth without him. Lionel didn't want to be a good cop without John. Not that he'd go back to his old days. That was definitely buried in the past. But a life without John to annoy the hell out of him in it simply wouldn't be as colorful.

 _Come on, tough guy,_ he thought, _try not to die_.


	7. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

 **July 5** **th** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157**

John was pulled from his sleep by a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and gave Shaw a contrite smile.

"I'm sorry, I think I missed the end of the story," he said in a foggy voice.

With a tilt of the head, Shaw directed him to look on the other side of his bed. John turned his head to the right. Harold was standing by his side, hesitant, vaguely scared.

Shaw bent over. "Go easy on him," she whispered in John's ear, "he had a rough couple of weeks."

She stood up, gave John a quick tip off an imaginary hat and left the room, leaving the two men alone.

"John?" Harold asked softly, as if worried that John might vanish into thin air.

"Harold," John breathed in a raspy tone, shooting him a smile.

A small smile slowly appeared on Harold's face. "It's good to see you awake."

With caution, he pulled a chair close to the bed and dropped on it, wincing with pain, as he held a protective hand to his side.

John frowned. Worried, he tried to sit up. "Finch, are you hurt?"

Harold waved it off. "Don't worry about it. I got shot when we were in the vault but -."

"What? And you hid it from me?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Harold articulated with insistence. "The muscle is just a little sore, still. By the way, you lied to me; the second time is just as bad as the first."

John relaxed and smiled.

"At least, we'll have matching scars," he said, pointing at his own abdomen, where he could feel the pain of the torn muscle.

Harold's expression sobered up. It seemed it was too soon to joke about it.

"So, Shaw said we won?" John said, changing the subject.

Harold nodded. "It would appear so."

"How's the Machine?"

"She made contact with Miss Shaw, so we know she survived. I need to re-run a lot of tests to make sure everything is in order. It might take some time before we're back on our feet."

"I guess it'll give me some time to rest," John quipped.

Silent settled in as Harold seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. John took a good look at him. Harold was distractingly fidgeting with the plastic lid of his tea cup. From the deep lines marking his features and the shadows under his eyes, it looked like Harold hadn't sleep much in the past few days. He was hunched in his chair and seemed downright exhausted.

"Thank you, Harold," John said softly.

Harold looked up, a deep frown on his forehead. "For what?"

A small smile brushed John's lips. "For locking me up in that vault? It means a lot to me, that you were willing to risk your life for me," he said more seriously. "There haven't been that many people willing to risk everything for me."

Harold swallowed the painful lump in his throat. "And yet, you couldn't simply accept it…"

"You know I had to do it," John said softly. "You're not cut for that kind of rescue mission. You would have died up there."

"And you almost did!" Harold suddenly looked up at John, eyes filled with tears.

Harold's visible distress was heartbreaking. John wanted to reassure him, make things all better for him, but he wasn't sure what to say. He _had_ to do it. And he couldn't promise not to do it again, because he would. He just didn't know how not to.

The truth was, it wasn't so much that Harold wouldn't have succeeded, as much as the fact that it was easier for John to risk his own life than risking losing someone else's. He wasn't sure he'd be strong enough to bear a single loss more. And losing Harold, of all people, was a thought he refused to fathom. Harold didn't just save his life, Harold was the person who reconnected him to the world, and who made him someone better. Harold gave him the strength to become the person John had always aspired to be. So what kind of man would he be if he couldn't protect him?

"I'm sorry I put you through all this. I've lost too many people in my life," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I couldn't let you die, Harold."

"And you think I can?" Harold said angrily. "Am I supposed to just sit and watch while you get shot again and again?"

He took a deep breath and released it slowly.

"John, you can't do that," he said, more composed. "I didn't hire you so that you could sacrifice your life for mine. You once told me that there were people the world couldn't afford to lose. But you don't seem to realize, you're one of those people, John."

"Someone had to do it. And you needed to make it out. What's the point of saving the Machine, if you're not there to fix it? The Machine needs you, Harold. Our mission needs you. You're the brain behind it. Me, I'm just the soldier. Plus, you still have Shaw, and Lionel. And if you need more back-up, I'm sure there's plenty of former military that could do the job."

A sad smile crossed Harold's face. "No there isn't, John. Not the way you do it. You're not just a soldier. Far from it." Harold let go a desperate sigh. "Damn, you don't even see how valuable you are… Do you know how many people you saved since we started?"

John shook his head. "Hopefully enough to make up for those I killed," he said soberly.

"Three hundred and ninety four."

John rose an eyebrow. "You've been keeping tabs?"

Harold stared at him. "Of course I have."

 _Three hundred and ninety four._ The number gradually sank in. "That's… a lot," John whispered, as he realized all the lives they had, indeed, saved.

"And that's not counting the people you, or the Machine, recruited and who are now, in turn, saving even more lives."

John smiled. "That's quite a thing you've started with your Machine, huh?"

" _We_ started, John. I wouldn't have gone this far without you. It's all your doing. Our little ill-adjusted family, it's all you. Miss Shaw, Detective Fusco, even the dog. They're all your own recruits."

John smiled. That was the first time he heard Harold referred to their team as a family. It felt nice. More than that, it felt right.

"I was ready to die for you," he said softly.

"John, please…"

"But I want you to know that I'm rather glad I didn't, after all."

Harold finally smiled.

"It feels good to be alive," John said again. "Even if it hurts like hell."

Harold jumped to his feet. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Reese, I should probably get a nurse."

He came back a few minutes later. It wasn't a nurse that was accompanying him, but Dr. Tillman. John couldn't hide his surprise, seeing the doctor, one of their very first numbers, and one that he had never forgotten.

"Megan? Dr. Tillman… It's nice to see you."

"And it's nice to see you finally awake, Detective."

John winced. Even though he's been playing Detective for almost two years now, it still felt vaguely wrong to be given a title he didn't own. "Just call me John."

Megan nodded. "How are you feeling, John?"

He shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Harold said you were in pain…"

John dismissed it with a wave of the hand. "It's nothing."

"I can increase your medication."

"No, it's fine, doc, I promise," John insisted.

She checked his vitals, asked him a couple more routine questions to test his cognition and coordination, noted a few things on the chart attached to his bed, and, looking satisfied, she put back her pen in the front pocket of her lab coat.

Before she left, she stepped closer to John's bed side, and looked at him with earnest eyes.

"Thank you, John, for what you did. I don't really know what you actually did, but, it seems you did what was necessary to, hum… I never saw him again."

"He's rotting in a Mexican prison, with a bunch of other fellow scumbags. One of the worst of the country, I assure you."

Megan laughed and shook her head in disbelief.

"Thank you," she repeated. "I wish we'd met again in less dramatic circumstances but I'm glad I get a chance to thank you. And meet all your friends, here," she added pointing at Harold.

John nodded. "I'm a lucky guy."

Both Megan and Harold rose a skeptical eyebrow.

"I'm alive," John said with a grin.


	8. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

 **July 6** **th** **2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157**

The next day, John was rather abruptly wakened up by a ball of fur jumping on his bed. He let go a groan and opened his eyes to the sight of a giant tongue leaking his face.

"Bear, Bear, no!" Lionel shouted a little too late to the dog, too eager to greet his rescuer.

"Bear, _stil_."

The dog stopped and settled by John's side. John patted his head and looked up at Lionel. The detective shot him an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry. He was missing you, so I thought I brought him along, but he never listens to me."

"It's okay, Lionel."

Lionel took a seat and smiled. "It's good to see you awake."

"Aww, Lionel, you've been worried about me," John teased.

"I just didn't want to have to be left alone with the Lunatic, you know…"

Their eyes met and they exchanged an earnest smile.

"How are things at the precinct?" John asked.

"Oh don't get me started on that. That's quite a mess we left that day. You killing the Captain and all." Lionel shook his head. "It's just like you to sleep it through while good old Fusco is left with cleaning the mess and do all the paperwork. I'm telling you, next time I'm sitting out the cyber-apocalypse."

John remained quiet, a grin at the corner of his lips as he simply listened to Lionel's endless rant.

"And you're in big troubles, Big Guy. They brought back that Lady Captain of doom. And don't think because you're a hero she'll let you get away with anything."

"I'm a hero?"

"Well, you took five, of course you're a hero at the precinct. Everyone is worried about you. I had to tell them. I didn't say everything of course. I'm not an idiot. But I had to tell them you weren't dead because I didn't want them to assign me another partner."

"So, we're still partners?"

"Of course we are. Half of the precinct is missing, so I had no problem claiming my old desk back, and I made sure to keep yours clear, too."

"What do you mean, half the precinct is missing?"

Lionel shrugged. "They just vanished into thin air. Some were found in the rumbles of that building you were rescued from. Others are still missing. It's not just our precinct. It's all over the NYPD. They were probably Samaritan's agents."

Instinctively, John looked up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. "Don't say that name!"

Lionel shrugged. "We won, the thing is gone."

"For now…"

"Don't you worry. Between Little Miss Ninja keeping vigil outside your room and Glasses who hacked the security feed, your room is as safe as Fort Knox."

John lifted an eyebrow.

"Okay, bad example," Lionel conceded, "but you get the idea. Anyway, I got to get back before the Captain comes and drags my ass back to the precinct. I'll come back tomorrow. Get some rest, partner."

* * *

 **July 23th 2016 – 810 Baxter Street, New York City**

Leaning against the window frame of his apartment, John looked outside. It was a bright and sunny day and he wondered if he should go for a little walk in the park.

After he had wakened, he didn't stay long at the hospital, preferring to recover at home. In his own apartment, shaved, hair combed, and wearing his own clothes, he was feeling a lot more like himself. He wasn't at 100% physically yet, but he would get there.

Things seemed a bit slow with the Machine, and Shaw had only received two numbers in the past two weeks. Harold had explained that because the Machine had been offline for several days, she had to repopulate its archives. In consequence, John was bored and feeling a little restless. But he was alive, and was feeling at peace with himself, which is something he hadn't felt in a very long time. He had saved Finch and his Machine. It wouldn't make up for all his past losses, not really, but he had beaten himself enough about those in the past that he could enjoy a victory for once.

Soon, he'd be back working the numbers with the team, and on active duty at the precinct with Lionel. Things were looking up.

A knock on the door took him out of his reverie. It was Harold, his box of chess figures under his arm. John smiled and grabbed his coat. They took a short walk around Columbus Park before seating at a chess table.

Harold seemed a little distracted. He usually was a much better player than John, but that morning, he made a couple of rookie mistakes that allowed John to make him checkmate in a surprisingly short time.

"Something on your mind, Harold?"

His eyes on the board, Harold distractingly shook his head. "Hmm? No, nothing…"

"You're leaving, aren't you?" John asked, a lump in his throat.

Harold looked up, surprised. "How… How do you know?"

John smiled. "I might not be a super AI, but I'm pretty good myself at reading people…"

"I haven't made up my mind yet," Harold said. "But the truth is… I'm tired of it all, John. I can't do it anymore. I can't take it anymore."

"It's funny," John said in a low voice. "When I was up there, on that rooftop, I really thought I wouldn't make it. Not this time. But I pictured you, going to Rome, finding Grace, being happy. And it was alright. That was my gift to you. A happy ending. I didn't expect to make it through, to have to see you go… And yet here I am, and… I'm going to miss you Harold."

They exchanged a smile.

"But you should," John went on. "Go find Grace. Be happy with her. You deserve it, Harold. You deserve your happy ending."

"And you don't?"

John shrugged. "This is my happy ending. I was happy to give you this. Saving people, that's what I really like. I've always thought because I was good at killing people, that's what I should do. Protecting my country from the bad guys. But it turns out I'm also pretty good at saving people. And that's a lot more gratifying. I'm happy, saving people, Harold. And that's thanks to you. You gave me my happy ending five years ago, when you saved my life. There's no other place I'd rather be. But you do. I know you want to be with her. So, go."

Harold nodded but remained quiet.

"Rematch?" John offered.

"Sure."

This time Harold was a lot more focused on the game and was quickly getting the upper hand, while John could only defend.

"You think she'll forgive me?" Harold asked.

"For the little I've seen Grace, she loved you a lot. Still does. I'm sure she will."

"Checkmate," Harold announced cheerfully. He looked up at John. "And you know, Rome is only a nine hour flight away."

"Oh I remember that, yes."

Harold picked up the game pieces and put them back in the box. They got up and walked to the exit of the park side by side, in companionable silent. Before they parted ways, John turned to his friend.

"Don't be a stranger. Stay in sight of surveillance cameras so that The Machine and I can keep an eye on you."

Harold nodded. "Take care of yourself, John. Don't make me come back urgently to rescue you from a dire situation."

John grinned. "Is that all it'd take to make you come back?"

Harold shot him a smile that couldn't hide his emotion. "Good bye, John."

"Good bye, Harold."

And with this, Harold turned around and quickly limped his way out of sight, disappearing around the corner without looking back.


	9. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

 **July 23th 2016 – Clarkson Street, New York City**

Before he realized where his steps had taken him, John found himself on the doorstep of Iris' office, adjacent to the precinct. He wasn't really sure why he was here, what had pushed him to go and talk to her. It was probably a terrible idea, but now that he was there, he couldn't resolve himself to turn back. So he knocked on the door and held his breath.

His heart was beating hard against his ribcage, and he was more nervous than he'd be willing to admit. It felt like an eternity before the door finally opened, revealing Iris.

"John!"

She was visibly surprised to see him, but, to John's relief, she didn't seem upset by his visit. On the contrary, she quickly stepped aside and invited him to come into her office with a smile.

"It's good to see you, John. I've been worried about you. At the precinct, everyone has been talking about you. Detective Fusco said you got shot…"

She stopped and pulled him into a hug. "I'm so glad you're okay."

John hugged her back tenderly. It felt good to see Iris again, even though, just about now, the physical contact did hurt his still sore abdomen. He did his best not to show it, but he couldn't suppress a short groan.

Iris quickly pulled away. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want to sit down? It's alright, I have a little bit of time before my next patient."

"It's nothing," he said with a smile, although he did take a seat. He had only been out of the hospital for a few days and he was still feeling a little weak. The walk in the park with Harold that morning had tired him more than he'd like to admit. Out of habit, he took the patient chair. Iris sat down in her own chair in front of him.

She turned serious, professional, and tilted her head, studying him. "What's going on, John?"

John took a deep breath. "I realize how awkward this is and that it's probably a huge favor to ask. You don't have to accept, I'd understand if you'd rather not. But hum… Well, I thought I should still take the chance."

"What is it?" she asked softly, her green eyes filled with concern.

"Iris, I, hum… The thing is, I can't be someone else. I don't _want_ to be someone else. Even though that means I can't give you what you need. In a relationship, I mean. But I feel like I need to talk to someone and I didn't know who else I could talk to. I like talking to you. I trust you, and you do understand me better than anyone. Plus you already know what I do."

"Your side job."

John nodded slightly. "The truth is, you probably know too much already, but at least that means I can be honest with someone. And, well, my partners aren't really... the talking type, you know? They're valuable friends and I'd trust them with my life but..."

He made an apologetic face.

"So you want to resume our sessions?"

He nodded, holding his breath. He could probably find dozens of arguments why this was a bad idea. He was potentially endangering her just by being close to her. She knew way too much about him for her own safety. And he would never forgive himself if anything were to happen to her because of him. Then, there was the fact he had broken up with her, and now was asking her a favor. This didn't really feel right. This was probably not what she wanted. And yet, part of him simply couldn't let her go. It's what he should do but not what he wanted to.

"Sessions or just a friendly coffee every once in a while…" he breathed. "It doesn't have to be formal."

She cut him off. "I'm glad you came back, John."

He looked up at her, surprised by her answer. "Really?"

"I think this is very good that you want to continue to talk."

"But isn't it going to bother you? Ethically? Personally?"

She bent forward to level her eyes with his. "And _now_ you're trying to convince me this is a bad idea?"

They exchanged a short smile before John looked away. He was trying very hard to fight his deep instinct telling him this was a bad idea.

"I like the idea of a friendly coffee, actually," she says. "But since you're here, why don't you tell me what is it you wanted to talk about?"

The directness of the question caught John slightly off-guard. He wasn't sure really, why he had felt that urge to come and talk to her. After all, everything was fine. He had first been forced to come to her by IA, and then had willingly came back after Shaw's disappearance. At a time when he thought he had lost his partner, being able to open up about his past losses and death had helped him process his feelings better. But now, he had saved Harold, saved the world, so what was it?

"I don't know…" he said in a low voice.

"Come on, John," she encouraged him gently. "You came for a reason. Is it about you getting shot?"

John shook his head. "No, I think it's more about… happy endings?" He shot her an uncertain smile, feeling it sounded a little ridiculous. "I didn't expect to make it out alive. I went up there, knowing very well I was going to an almost certain death. And yet I made it, thanks to my friends who rescued me. For a very long time, I thought I'd be a better soldier if I didn't have any strings attached. But maybe I was wrong. I would have died half a dozen times if it weren't for my friends and my _ill-fitted family_."

"Does it bother you that people would be willing to risk their lives to save yours?"

"I don't know if I'm worth saving…"

"To them, you are. You obviously mean something to them."

 _I didn't hire you so that you could sacrifice your life for mine. You once told me that there were people the world couldn't afford to lose. But you don't seem to realize, you're one of those people, John._

John felt a lump growing in his throat as he remembered Harold's words to him.

"I guess you're right," he whispered. "It's been such a long time since I had people who cared about me like that. In a way, it made things easier. I didn't have anyone to worry about but myself, no one left behind, no one to mourn me if I died…"

Iris leaned forward, and looked him straight in the eyes. "And how does it feel, to have people who care about you, now?"

"It's terrifying… And I'm not sure I'm completely comfortable with it. But it also means I have people I can rely on, for real."

 _People who wouldn't shoot him on a simple order. People who didn't consider him expandable._

"Maybe it's not so bad after all…" he admitted finally.

A knock on the door interrupted them. The next patient had arrived.

Reluctantly, John got up. Iris stood up as well. She stepped forward, about to give him a hug but she stopped herself.

"Sorry, I should probably not hug you again," she said pointing at John's abdomen.

"Right… So, hum… Saturday, 10 AM, the coffee shop at the corner of Columbus Park?" he offered.

Iris nodded and smiled. "I'll be looking forward to it."

John hesitated an instant, then leaned forward to put a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you."


	10. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

 **6 months later**

It was one of those crisp and sunny winter days. John readjusted his collar and buried his hands in his pockets as he headed toward Washington Square. The park was mostly empty, which made it easy for John to spot them. They were sitting on a bench, sharing an ice-cream and looking perfectly content. John couldn't help but smile at this. They had to be the only couple in the whole city to be enjoying an ice-cream in the middle of winter.

They had arrived the day before – John had kept track of their itinerary and knew they had safely landed right on time – and they had arranged to meet here, the little park by Grace's old building.

Harold was the first one to see him. He looked up and his face lit up at the sight of his old friend. He signaled Grace and she followed his gaze. John smiled back at them and quickly closed the distance.

"Welcome home," he said. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you as well, John," Harold said as he and Grace got up.

"I'd say it's nice to finally meet you," Grace said, "but I believe we've already met, a couple times actually."

A grin brushed John's lips. He didn't get a chance to reply before she was pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you, John, for everything you've done. Harold told me everything. Thank you for looking after him all this time."

John smiled softly. "You're welcome. So, I've heard you got a job at the Guggenheim museum?"

Grace looked surprised and turned to Harold who shot John a long look. John shrugged. "I like to keep track on the people I care about. It's what I do, remember?"

Harold smiled. Out of reflex, he looked up at the closest camera, as if looking up at the Machine. John followed his gaze before meeting his eyes. He didn't dare ask the question that was burning his lips.

"I don't know, John," Harold answering the question John hadn't asked. "I think I've done my share of saving the world." He gently squeezed Grace's hand and looked into her eyes. "Plus it's not my sole decision anymore."

"He was missing you too much, though," Grace said. "I know that, being so close, the temptation will be big, and I know Harold will not hesitate a second to put himself in danger again if any were to happen to any of you. But I couldn't keep him too far either."

John grinned. "Now I see why you love her so much, Harold. But don't worry, Grace. If anything, you might make it easier for us to convince Harold to stay safe."

It didn't matter, really, if Harold wanted to claim his place back on the team. He would always have one, should he decide to, but just having him here, in their city, was enough. After all, they had managed to keep in touch when Samaritan was watching. There was no reason they couldn't do so now.

Rubbing his hands, John nodded for them to follow him. "Come on, let me at least show you our new headquarters."

"Oh where is it?"

"But a library of course, Harold. The city closed half of its libraries, budget cuts. Remember?"

Harold met John's eyes and smiled.


End file.
